


St. 'Anthony' George

by CosmicOcelot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Moving In Together, Pining, mentions of Freddie Mercury, mentions of Oscar Wilde, pure of heart dumb of ass, that's it that's them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicOcelot/pseuds/CosmicOcelot
Summary: “Angel, what’s wrong?”Aziraphale stays standing stubbornly before giving in with a sigh and sliding down next to Crowley. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sorry for being…cross…it’s just that, well…”He looks at Crowley rather helplessly, like one might look at another before delivering the news of a terminally ill pet or the loss of all their retirement savings.“Somebody bought a book.”





	St. 'Anthony' George

“Rather austere, isn’t it?”

“We can’t all own old bookshops, Angel.”

Aziraphale frowns, taking in the hard angles and cool metal of Crowley’s apartment, not a comfy surface in sight. “Still…”

He looks over to where Crowley is trying to uncork a bottle, long fingers on his other hand curling around the stems of two wine glasses, brow slightly furrowed in concentration. “Wouldn’t you prefer something a little more…comfy?”

It seems odd to him, that Crowley should prefer these minimalistic accoutrements in his home when the demon has never made an effort to curb his hedonistic impulses, but then again, perhaps his competing desire to appear cool and sleek had won out.

Crowley smirks up at him as he begins pouring wine in both their glasses. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale says, surprising them both. “There’s an empty room in the flat above the bookshop, I’ve been using it to store some excess books but, well, I can easily move them down to the shop to make room.”

Crowley stops, just fully _stops_ , standing exceptionally still in the middle of his apartment and looking at Aziraphale with an unreadable expression in his yellow eyes.

“It just,” Aziraphale says, his voice much softer than before, “seems a bit strange…for us to keep our own places seeing as there’s not really any danger of being found out…not anymore that is. It’s rather, practical, actually, I would’ve thought, now that we’re really and truly on our own side and everything…might as well be close by so we can keep an eye on each other and all that…" 

He trails off, uncertainly, and when Crowley still doesn’t say anything, he rushes to take back the words, to put some caveat there for Crowley to use to refuse the offer gracefully without any damage to either of them. “You don’t have to of course; I completely understand if you’d rather—”

“No,” Crowley interrupts, and now it's Aziraphale to be frozen, watching as the demon’s throat works for a moment as though struggling to bring the words to his lips, “no, I—that would be—good—that would be very good. If—”

Crowley hesitates. “If you’re sure, that is—”

“I am.” Aziraphale rushes to say, feeling his cheeks heat.

Crowley nods. “Right.”

He hands Aziraphale his wine glass, then raises his for a cautious toast. “I’ll just…bring my things over tomorrow then?”

“That should be fine, perfectly…tickety-boo.” Aziraphale struggles not to flush any further. “Will you require any assistance or—?”

“Nah, should be fine.” Crowley shakes his head, wine glass still extended.

“Right.” Aziraphale clinks their glasses together gently. “Tomorrow then.”

* * *

Crowley’s _things_ , as it were, turn out to be a couple of plants, two big kept upstairs in the flat and three small that are scattered carefully around the bookshop in places optimal for their growth, a flat screen television set, a set of clothes that Aziraphale can’t tell apart for how black they all are, a bed that looks so soft that the angel wonders how it survived in Crowley’s apartment for so long, and one demon. 

Crowley fits into the shop quite well and though there’s an air of awkwardness initially, it’s quickly overcome by the demon insisting that the two of them watch something called ‘ _James Bond’_ of which there are rather a lot of, both movies and actors that portray the titular character. Watching it, however, proves to be a rather enjoyable experience. And by watching it, Aziraphale means watching Crowley watch it, the way his eyes light up and how he nudges Aziraphale insistently at the good parts, of which Crowley appears to think there are quite a lot of.

After a few days, Aziraphale reluctantly opens the bookshop, it’s important to at least maintain the image that he runs a place of business—even if he does his best to ensure that none takes place. And it’s on the third day of this that he comes upstairs in, well if he’s honest, _rather a huff._

Crowley glances over at him from where he’s reclining on the couch, book in hand. “What happened? Someone try and tell you Oscar Wilde’s overrated again?”

“Nobody, but you, has ever told me that.” Aziraphale bangs the kettle on with slightly more force than is entirely necessary. “And to be frank with you, I still don’t understand why you did. It was very unkind.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Right, because you were so lovely about Freddie.”

“That—that was _quite_ different.” Aziraphale says, hand clutching the tea bag so hard the leaves may be disintegrating.

“Of course it was.”

“It most certainly _was_.” Aziraphale insists, making his way over to Crowley. “I, for one, was not sleeping with him.”

Crowley brow furrows. “Freddie?”

“No, Oscar—neither of them!” Aziraphale snaps, “Unlike you—you—”

He hesitates, taking in the way that Crowley’s eyes have widened. “Weren’t you?”

“No!” Crowley replies, putting the book down on the coffee table. “Freddie was just a mate, and Oscar—I thought that the two of you were—” He gestures towards Aziraphale uselessly before dropping his hands with a small noise of uncertainty.

Silence falls over them for a moment, taking advantage of the revelation of their mutual misunderstandings, before Crowley sighs and pulls himself into a sitting position, making space on the couch.

“Angel, what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale stays standing stubbornly before giving in with a sigh and sliding down next to Crowley. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sorry for being…cross…it’s just that, well…”

He looks at Crowley rather helplessly, like one might look at another before delivering the news of a terminally ill pet or the loss of all their retirement savings.

“Somebody bought a book.”

Crowley blinks, face kept carefully neutral. “Isn’t that part and parcel of running a bookshop?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Aziraphale wrings his hands, “but it was a first edition! I’d kept it in good condition for almost two hundred years and now—” He shakes his head, shuddering at the thought of it left open on a coffee table so that the spine creases or of food dropping onto the pristine pages, “who knows what’s happening to it now.”

“Why didn’t you just…” Crowley shrugs, “ _convince them_ they didn’t want it? Or something?”

“I can’t just—” Aziraphale mimes snapping his fingers, “not to avoiding selling someone a book.”

Crowley looks like he’s about to ask him ‘ _why not?’_ then thinks better of it, standing and making his way over to where the kettle is whistling.

Aziraphale sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I suppose I should be used to losing the occasional tome by now...I’m dreadfully sorry for how I acted, my dea—Crowley.”  
  
Crowley’s head snaps up from where he’s stirring in the milk and sugar into Aziraphale’s tea. “What did you say?”

“I, well, I called you ‘my dear’.” Aziraphale says, because it’s been rather a long day and he can’t be bothered to come up a new step in this ever more elaborate dance of theirs. “I’m so sorry, it won’t happen again—”

“No, it’s, uh, it’s alright.” Crowley says, suddenly very focused on making sure there are no stray sugar particles undissolved in the tea. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale feels his heart swell, blocking his throat and the words all tangled up in there, managing only a slight nod as Crowley brings over his tea. “Thank you.”

He takes the tea cup, made just the way he likes it, as Crowley retakes his position on the couch, picking up his book from where he had carefully closed it on the coffee table so the spine wouldn’t crease.

“It can.” Crowley says, after spending rather a long time staring at one page without turning it. “Happen again, I mean. What you said earlier. If you’d like.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, softer this time. “Well, alright then; my dear.”

Crowley only gives a hum in answer, but he starts turning the pages of his book again, eventually stretching out his legs so they cross over Aziraphale’s lap; and for a reason that the angel can’t quite determine, he keeps one hand on his tea and the other gently stroking the demon’s legs for some time after.

Aziraphale comes down to the shop the next morning to see Crowley reclining on the couch there, a book— _the_ book—resting on the shop’s counter.

“Found it on the pavement a little ways away.” Crowley says, while Aziraphale traces the cover with his fingertips, an impossibly immense feeling sweeping over him. “It’s alright, not damaged or anything, but I thought it’d do better here than with whoever dropped it.”

He turns from the book to look at Crowley, eyes determinedly focused on his own book, and feels himself smile so wide that it hurts a little.

“Thank you, my dear.”

A flush darkens the demon’s cheeks and Crowley curls further into the couch, pressing his face so far into the book that it’s a wonder he can still read it. “‘S nothing, Angel.”

* * *

Crowley hangs out in the shop while it’s open now, a fact that Aziraphale was initially grateful for, as it gave him company while he skimmed some of his old favourites and made sure no one was making off with anything they hadn’t come in with—paid or otherwise. 

That is, until he returns from making a cup of tea to find that Crowley has left his perch on the couch and is currently leaning up against one of the bookshelves, smiling down at a woman clutching an unacceptably early edition of Beowulf.

He takes a seat back at his desk, picking up his book and pretending to read, though he keeps his eyes on the growing intimacy of the pair’s interactions—Crowley tipping his head to the side and murmuring in a low voice—the woman laughing at whatever it was he said—and feels something hot and nasty fester in him.

Eventually the woman leaves, handing Crowley the book in such a way that their fingers brush slightly, turning to shoot him one last wink before the door closes behind her.

Aziraphale stands and flips the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ as soon as she’s out, tugging the curtains down at the front before turning to where Crowley has paused halfway through returning Beowulf to its shelf—brow furrowed at him.

“You alright?”

“Of course, I am, why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale snaps.

Crowley shrugs, and finishes putting Beowulf back. “Just never seen you close the shop so early, is all.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale smooths out his jacket, “I thought that was rather enough customers for one day; and besides, there’s this new Italian place that’s opened around the corner that I thought we might try.”

Crowley looks at him for a moment, not moving, looking like he’s hovering on the edge of asking something—like he had all those nights ago when Aziraphale had first asked him to move in.

“Unless you’d prefer to go somewhere else?”

But then the moment has passed, and Crowley is making his way over to Aziraphale, reaching past him for the door. “Italian’s fine.”

He holds it open, gesturing for Aziraphale to go through.

“After you.”

* * *

It would have been fine, if it were just a one off, one time. 

But time after time Aziraphale comes back from returning a book to its place, or from making tea for him and coffee for Crowley, or with a plate of sandwiches that Aziraphale will insist on the demon at least _trying_ , to find Crowley… _talking_ with the customers; who more often than not have one of Aziraphale’s books in their hands. Which means he has to watch, to make sure that they don’t suddenly decide that it would look better on their own shelves rather than Aziraphale’s, as Crowley… _tempts_ people right in front of him.

A woman with a first edition of the King James Bible, a man staring far too long at his collection of signed first editions of Conan Doyle’s works, a person mucky-ing up the pages of _The Jungle Book—_ Crowley talks with them all. Sometimes leaning against bookshelves, sometimes standing with his hands in his pockets, sometimes smiling up at them from a chair— _always_ breathtakingly lovely, practically desire incarnate.

And each time it happens that awful feeling is back, still festering away within him, replaced by an ugly, smug sort of satisfaction every time Crowley burns the pieces of paper with numbers scrawled on them that the humans hand him. They may catch Crowley’s eyes but in the end it’s his flat that the two of them retire to in the evening, his company that Crowley keeps at dinner, lunch, and on the odd occasion, brunch, and he alone gets the privilege of _seeing_ Crowley’s eyes when he finally casts off those damned glasses.

He almost asks, more times than he can count, why he does it. Neither of their sides has been paying much attention to their ‘ _work_ ’ so there’s no reason for Crowley to be doing any kind of tempting, let alone this. But he’s worried about how the question, no matter how meticulously constructed in his head, would sound once it fell past his lips. And, if he’s completely honest, there is non-insignificant part of him that is rather terrified of the answer as well.

So, he sits and watches and doesn’t give voice to the feeling steadily growing within him, expanding in his chest to the point of suffocating him. In truth, he feels rather akin to a kettle, just waiting for the water’s boiling point to be reached.  
  
“Excuse me?”

The voice snaps him out of his reverie and he glances up from where he’s been glaring a hole into the pages of his book, mouth already half open with an offer of assistance—

Only to find no one standing there, but a quick glance around locates the source of the voice, a man, hovering hesitantly next to where Crowley had lazily thrown himself over the couch this morning.

“You’re excused.” Crowley drawls, turning another page in his book, and that ugly sense of satisfaction is back.

“Oh, uh, thank-you, I guess, but, um, what I meant was—” The man waves his hands around rather inelegantly before forcing them to settle in his jean’s pockets. “I was wondering if you had any copies of Shakespeare?”

They do, the newest ones kept in a bookshelf right by the entrance to the store, the older ones sequestered safely away in the back; but Aziraphale doesn’t offer this information.

“No idea,” Crowley still doesn’t look up from his book, nodding his head vaguely towards Aziraphale’s direction. “You’re better off asking him.”

He presses his face back into his book, hurrying to look as though he hadn’t been eavesdropping, and refusing to meet the hesitant glance that the man sends his way. When he risks of glance of his own after a few seconds his eyes meet Crowley’s, just barely visible above his glasses, but he returns to his book again before he can completely examine the brief flash of confusion he caught.

“’Suppose I could lend you a hand.” Crowley allows after a moment, placing his book down and rising from the couch in one fluid motion.

“Oh,” The man lets out a nervous breath, “thank-you.”

Crowley doesn’t reply, just saunters over to the front of the store to the bookshelf that, Aziraphale notes with a vindictive satisfaction, is the furthest away from the Shakespeare section. Unfortunately, it's also one of the furthest from Aziraphale’s desk, and keeping the two of them within eyesight means he has to crane his neck rather uncomfortably. He takes their walk over to examine the man, peering past his outward features to inspect the glimmer of familiarity that they inspire; he thinks this man has been in the shop before, several times in fact, but he can’t recall Crowley ever interacting with him any of those times.

“So,” the man starts, “come ‘round here often?”

Crowley’s lips quirk. “Sort of.”

“Right, sorry, that was a stupid question.” The man sighs, running a hand through his hair, “I’ve seen you here before, a couple of times actually.”

“That so?” Crowley hums, keeping his gaze on the bookshelf, running his long fingers gently along the books’ spines.

“Yeah,” The man takes a few steps closer and Aziraphale forces himself to relax his grip on his book, placing it down on the counter. “In fact, I was, sort of wondering if you might like to grab a drink with me?”

Crowley’s fingers pause in their search, and he turns to look at the man, eyes unreadable behind those glasses. “A drink?”

“You know, coffee, tea, or…” The man’s voice drops slightly and suddenly he’s right in Crowley’s space, their bodies mere millimeters away from each other. “Something stronger?”

“Oh.” Crowley doesn’t attempt to move any closer to the man, but he also doesn’t back away either, as though he’s frozen in place. “Right.”

The man cocks his head to the side. “You sound surprised,” he reaches up and pretends to wipe some dust off of Crowley’s shoulder, his hand lingering before tracing down the demon’s arm, “or is it usually you that makes the first move with people?”

 _‘First move’_. Aziraphale does not like the sound of that _at all_ , it implies that there are going to be other… _moves_ following.

Crowley seems to have short circuited, mouth hanging open slightly, and he clears his throat. “Usually.”

“Hmm, seems a shame.” The man hums, amused, and his trespassing hand comes to rest on Crowley’s hip. “But, more for me, I suppose.”

Aziraphale’s own hands are shaking where they grip the edge of his desk, the wood beginning to warp slightly under the force. 

“Right.” Crowley seems to have recovered somewhat, though there’s still an uneasy tension to his body. “Well, I can’t seem to find that book you were looking for.”

He stresses the end of the sentence, as though reminding the man of the weak excuse he had come up with to steal Crowley’s attention, but instead of shame the only thing it draws out of the man is a smirk.

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

He brings his other hand up to Crowley’s face, fingertips hovering just a hairsbreadth away from his glasses. “I’m much more interested in what your eyes look like under those glasses.”

“Is that so?” Crowley’s uneasy expression shifts into something more predatory, teeth gleaming in a grin.

“Why don’t you find out?”

The man’s smirk spreads, vulturine fingers grasping the sides of Crowley’s glasses—

And is thrown backwards as the bookshop shakes violently, bookshelves shifting from side to side and dust thrown up into the air, the light fixtures above their heads rattling.

Aziraphale stands, moving away from where his desk has been warped to match the inside of his closed fists to where the man had been thrown to the floor. He feels as though he’s being boiled alive from the inside out, the feeling scorching through his veins and burning his chest, and he wonders if this is what She feels, what the other angels felt when they laid waste to Sodom and Gomorrah, if this—this all-consuming, destructive, _Wrath_ —if this is what the true definition of Divine Fury is.

As quickly as it had come, the room around them stills, but just barely, the shop trembling with the force of something kept at bay.

He looks at Crowley, who meets his gaze behind those glasses.

“I think,” The demon drawls, “it’s closing time.”

The man on the floor glances between the two of them, terror carved into his very being, and like a statue he doesn’t move.

Crowley crosses the floor to him, reaching a hand down to help him up—

The shaking starts again, breaking through the force subduing it.

Crowley pushes back against it again, returning the room to its previous stillness, but withdraws his hand from the man; snapping his fingers instead.

The man gets up, a blank look on his face, and exits the shop—the doors locking behind him.

The two of them stand there, demon and angel, regarding the other, and neither moves.

“What’s wrong, Angel?” 

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? An angel and a demon, chasing round each other in an endless circle, always just out of reach of the other—love alone not enough to defy Heaven and Hell, not entirely, the fear of what might happen to Crowley holding him back from embracing him.

But then it had, _they_ had, and he’s spent weeks waiting for Crowley to ask him again, now that they were finally on the same page about it all—at least he’d thought they were.

And then he’d worried that he’d missed his chance, all those years ago in the Bentley, more than a vial of holy water being passed between them. That Crowley would always be _his_ , his companion, his friend, his side, but not _entirely_ , not the way that he would have thrown himself into it before—before Aziraphale turned it all down, caught up in the terrifying thought of Crowley torn from him completely.

He’d told himself he could handle it, could stand to possess only the parts of him that Crowley would allow, but it’s—this—that isn’t how desire works. At least not with him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley crosses the distance between the two of them, steps slow and careful, “what’s—”

“I love you.”

Crowley freezes, the two of them barely a breath apart.

“I do. I love you.” His body is shaking with the aftershocks of his wrath, and he clutches at Crowley’s lapels, holding himself steady and _him_ there. “I’ve loved you for—God only knows how long—and I thought—well, I rather thought you did too.”

“Aziraphale, I—”

“And after everything—after all that’s happened—I thought that we could—” Aziraphale’s looks at Crowley, desperately willing him to understand, wanting nothing more than to rip those glasses from his face and throw them somewhere they’ll never be seen again. “ _We’re on our side_ , you said, and I thought that meant—and you agreed to move in here—but then—” 

His hands tighten their grip on Crowley, and his jaw clenches. “You’ve been… _tempting_ people—customers in the shop, right in front of me, and they all… _look at you_ like—”

He cuts himself off, surging forward to meet Crowley’s lips, pushing the demon so that his back connects with the nearest bookcase and oh— _oh_ —it’s wonderful. The way that Crowley’s lips feel, warm and soft underneath his own, and how they part to welcome in his tongue when he licks his way into the heat of Crowley’s mouth. The feel of Crowley’s hands, running over his back and tangling in his hair, his legs slipping between Aziraphale’s to brush against his—

Aziraphale takes in a sharp breath, wave of pleasure breaking over him, and his own hand tightens where it’s tangled up in Crowley’s hair, giving a slight tug as a result, and the sound that it draws past the demon’s lips is _gorgeous_. A flush darkens the demon’s cheeks when the angel looks at him curiously afterwards, and he attempts to draw Aziraphale back into another kiss to distract from it, only to have another such sound torn from his lips as Aziraphale tugs again.

At the same time, it hits Aziraphale what’s happening, and the warmth blooming in his chest is mired in the confusion and frustration overtaking him.

“Why did you do it?”

Crowley huffs. “Couldn't exactly help it, Angel.”

“No, that’s not what I—” but the detail is not exactly unwelcome, and Aziraphale feels another wave of heat at the thought of testing that little detail out later on, “why did you try and tempt them?”

Crowley looks a little bit sheepish, that flush deepening, and Aziraphale finds himself looking forward to seeing just how far down it goes.

“I wasn’t trying to—I was stopping them making off with your books, you bloody big idiot.”

Aziraphale stares at him, blinking, before that puzzle piece clicks into place in his mind, finally giving him the full picture.

“You—you were—” Aziraphale’s mouth works uselessly.

Crowley shrugs under the scrutiny of the angel’s dumbfounded gaze. “Didn’t always work of course, sometimes you’d get one that was almost as mad about all this,” he gestures towards the shop and its books, “as you are, so I would have to,” he mimes snapping, “nothing, bad, mind you, just sent them to that bakery you’re always going on about. Figured they could do with the business.”

Aziraphale stares at him, love—sheer, utter, _love_ —for this... _impossible creature_ overwhelming any words.

“That was,” he says, once the power of speech has been restored to him, licking his lips to get rid of the dry feeling in his mouth, “very kind of you. But if it’s all the same to you, my dear, I’d prefer it if we found other ways to dissuade customers in the future.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Crowley murmurs, his hand coming up to stroke Aziraphale’s cheek, “I think I’m rather enjoying the end result of that particular technique—”

Aziraphale tugs Crowley’s hair back, drawing an obscene moan past his lips, and duck his head to Crowley’s neck to press a biting, sucking kiss to the skin there.

“Interesting, to see you all…territorial.” Crowley manages to get out as Aziraphale continues to leave marks up and down the long column of his neck. “Though I have to ask, are you planning to have me against the bookshelf? Because I imagine that would cause rather a mess.”

“You have a better idea?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley snaps his fingers and suddenly they’re in the bedroom upstairs, and Aziraphale is on his back, pressed into the mattress, with Crowley hovering above him, grinning smugly.

“Just the one.”

Aziraphale reaches up and tugs Crowley’s glasses off, breath catching in his throat at the emotion, clear and unchecked, brimming within his eyes.

And then he remembers those perfidious fingers, and how they had gotten so close to doing what he just had.

With a movement, it’s Crowley with his back pressed to the mattress, Aziraphale hovering over him, but the wicked grin on the demon’s face gives way to something close to concern when it sees whatever the angel’s face looks like right now.

“Aziraphale?”

“You…” Aziraphale’s fingertips trace Crowley’s cheekbones, his eyes never leaving his, the yellow having taken over the whole eye, pupils dilated.

“You were going to let him see you.” 

Crowley blinks up at him for a moment, before understanding hits with all the force of a sledgehammer, his mouth falling open in a slight gasp.

“ _Oh_. Oh, that. Well, I…” Crowley trails off, his hands coming to rest against Aziraphale’s arms, stroking them gently. “I thought that once he caught a glimpse of them he might, y’know, bugger off.”

Crowley meets Aziraphale’s furrowed brow with a raised eyebrow. “They’re not exactly the kind that humans write sonnets about, are they?”

Aziraphale disagrees, if he didn’t know that Shakespeare and Crowley had nothing more than a passing acquaintance, he would have attributed several of the playwright’s works to those eyes. As it is, it’s enough for the feeling within him to settle once more, pressing their lips together again in another kiss.

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs when they break apart, his eyes meeting Aziraphale’s insistently. “You know, don’t you? I didn't get a chance to say it earlier but I—”

His hands tighten around Aziraphale’s arms. “There’s been no one else. Nothing like—like this—like you—not since—” He breaks off, swallowing, “Not ever. It’s been— _I’ve_ been—since the beginning.”

 _Since the beginning?_ Aziraphale’s heart aches, for all those years that Crowley has spent loving him from a distance, and he presses their lips together again, softly, just reveling in the feeling of the two of them—here in this moment—together.

“I know.” He breathes against Crowley’s lips, hand cupping the demon’s face. “But say it for me anyway.”

Crowley reaches up, tucking a stray hair behind Aziraphale’s ear, his eyes so full of the unspoken words that when they finally come it’s more the adherence to an oath rather than the commitment of one.

But it still feels like coming home.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley raises his head off the bed, tilting his head so that their lips brush lightly against one another, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s.

“I love you.”

And as Crowley presses their lips together in a searing kiss, Aziraphale feels wonderfully, perfectly, complete.


End file.
